highly creditable. Deeply attached, in consequence of his long-enduring
kindness, all were anxious to remain, if possible, about his person.
His butler, Dalgleish, said he would take any or no wages, but go he
would not. His coachman, Peter Matheson, went to work with his horses
at the plough, glad to the core that he was allowed to remain at
Abbotsford on such terms.
The spring of 1828 gave the world _The Fair Maid of Perth_, his last
popular novel. He then indulged in a little relaxation, by spending
a few weeks in London, in the enjoyment of Mr and Mrs Lockhart’s
society, as well as that of many attached friends. We have at this
time a valuable addition to that testimony to his temper which the
second last paragraph affords. He had some years before engaged his
credit for £1200 in favour of his friend Daniel Terry the actor, who
was then undertaking the management of the Adelphi Theatre. Being now
informed of the ruin of Mr Terry’s affairs, he wrote him a letter, in
which the following passage occurs: ‘For my part, I feel as little
title, as God knows I have the wish, to make any reflections on the
matter, beyond the most sincere regret on your own account. The sum
for which I stand noted in the schedule is of no consequence in the
now more favourable condition of my affairs.... I told your solicitor
that I desired he would consider me as a friend of yours, desirous to
take, as a creditor, the measures which seemed best to forward your
interest.’ These are precious things to put into a biography; but they
do not exhaust the list. Even while drudging so hard for the means
of diminishing his own encumbrances, he is found pretty frequently
composing and giving away a paper for the benefit of some unfortunate
man of letters, little regarding, perhaps, the strict merits of the
object of his bounty. One of the most remarkable of these benefactions
consisted in his allowing the publication of two religious discourses
for the benefit of a young man endeared to him by misfortune as well
as merit. This publication yielded £250, a sum which few other literary
men would allow to pass from their own pockets in such a manner.
A great part of his time was now taken up with the new writing
connected with the popular edition of his works; yet before the end of
1828 he had advanced a good way with a new novel, the ground of which
he laid in Switzerland, notwithstanding his being acquainted with the
scenery of that country only by description and engravings. His mind
was now in a more cheerful mood regarding his affairs than it had been
since the dreadful January 1826; and if he had been free of various
ailments, inclusive of rheumatism, caught from a damp bed in France, he
might have enjoyed his life in the country almost as heartily as ever.
Suffer as he might, perseverance at his desk was a fixed principle
with him. Of this we have a striking trait in his finishing _Anne of
Geierstein_ before breakfast one morning, and commencing, as soon as
the meal was over, a new work, a _History of Scotland_, for Lardner’s
_Cabinet Cyclopædia_.
The prospectus of what he called his _opus magnum_--namely, the
re-issue of the Waverley Novels--came out in February 1829, and was so
exceedingly well received that an edition of 10,000 seemed the least he
could throw off, a number which in those days appeared immense. When
the book was published, it was quickly found that this edition would be
quite insufficient to supply the public demand. In short, the sale of
the early volumes was not under 35,000. This was of course magnificent
success, and afforded the prognostic of a much quicker and more easy
settlement of the debts than had been anticipated. The volumes were
sold at five shillings. It was easy to see that, when a certain section
of the public had been supplied at that rate, a still cheaper edition
might be issued with benefit to all concerned. Thus it might be hoped
that Sir Walter would in time rest a free man, with little help from
his own immediate exertions. His heart rebounded at the prospect; and
he even glanced at the possibility of adding to his son’s estate before
he died. The public, too, had their visions on the subject, and, under
the idea that his embarrassments were, comparatively speaking, at an
end, the old stream of tourists and friend-visitors began once more to
pour into Abbotsford. The only drawback was in the infirm and failing
health.
CONCLUDING YEARS--DECEASE.
In February 1830, Scott experienced the first decidedly bad symptom, in
an attack of an apoplectic nature, which caused him to fall speechless
and insensible on the floor. This, it seems, was a hereditary affection
in his family, and it therefore gave him the greater apprehension,
though his physicians were of opinion that the attack proceeded from
the stomach. On still went the pen of the ready-writer, now engaged
on a volume of _Demonology_ for Murray’s _Family Library_. To obtain
even more time for literary task-work, he now resigned his clerkship
on a retiring allowance of £800 a year, and went to fix himself at
Abbotsford as a permanent residence. It was an injudicious step, as it
deprived him of the society of most of his old friends, and threw him
more and more upon that task-work which had already been prosecuted
only too zealously. His friends, Cadell and Ballantyne, were now
sensible that he had carried his zeal for the discharge of his debts
too far, and would have fain restricted him to lighter duty; but it
was difficult to deal with a mind acting under such powerful impulses.
Greatly against their wishes, he commenced a new novel, styled _Count
Robert of Paris_, which, when it appeared, shewed very clearly how
glory had departed from him. He also embroiled his mind in the politics
of the crisis then passing, and wrote a long pamphlet against the
reforming measures of the day, which afterwards he was induced to
suppress. The exaggerated view which he took of the reform cause is a
painful chapter in his history, not merely as shewing him unusually ill
informed and weak of judgment on passing events, but because it gave a
needless addition to anxieties of a real kind which were now pressing
severely on the springs of life. Amidst the vexations arising to him
from public affairs, one ray of pleasure visited him when his creditors
(December 1830) presented him with his library, furniture, plate, and
articles of virtù, considered as equivalent to £10,000, thus enabling
him to make a provision for the younger branches of his family. These
gentlemen were led to this act of generosity by their sense of his
unparalleled exertions in their behalf. Their claims against Scott
had now been reduced to £54,000, and as he had insured £22,000 upon
his life in their favour, and the Waverley Novels were continuing to
produce large returns, all doubt of the ultimate discharge of the
claims had ceased. About this time, the honour of being made a member
of the Privy Council was offered to him, but peremptorily declined, as
unsuitable to his circumstances.
In November of the past year, Scott had had another slight stroke
of apoplexy. He lived in the most sparing manner, yet this did not
prevent a distinct paralytic affection befalling him in April 1831.
From this he recovered, by the care of a good surgeon, in a few days,
and was then placed, by way of caution, upon extremely low diet, which,
however, he did not always adhere to. He was now extremely infirm
in walking, and, from heedlessness, often tumbled over articles of
furniture or other impediments. The desire to be writing continued,
nevertheless, in full vigour as a ruling passion. Here, however, he
was destined to receive a shock more terrible to him than bodily
illness, when his friends, Cadell and Ballantyne, felt it right to tell
him that his tale of _Count Robert of Paris_ was, in their opinion,
an entire failure. ‘The blow is a stunning one, I suppose’--thus he
speaks in his diary--‘for I scarcely feel it.... I am at sea in the
dark, and the vessel leaky, I think, into the bargain. I have suffered
terribly, that is the truth, rather in body than in mind, and I often
wish I could lie down and sleep without waking. But I will fight it
out if I can.’ His friends and medical attendants strongly advised
him to intermit these severe exertions, which evidently were only
a gentle form of self-murder; but they preached to deaf ears. They
were equally unsuccessful in their endeavours to keep him back from a
county election in which he felt interested. He went--took part in the
proceedings--and came to a collision with the populace, which could
not but leave distressing effects on one who, on all other points,
delighted to stand in kindly relations towards the humbler classes.
In the very depth of this dark crisis he began a tale, called _Castle
Dangerous_, in which the failing powers of his mind became even
more painfully conspicuous. He was now fully sensible that, in all
probability, he had but a short time to live; but it only made him the
more eager to work for the acquittance of his great obligations. So
much was this the case, that, being at a country-house in Lanarkshire
on a short visit, the intelligence of a friend having fallen down
suddenly in a fit, from which it was not expected he would recover,
caused him instantly to break up his engagement, and go home; answering
to all remonstrances on the subject: ‘The night cometh when no man may
work.’
He was now advised to spend the ensuing winter in Italy; and the
government having handsomely placed a ship at his disposal, he sailed
for Naples in October, attended by his eldest son and younger daughter.
He was most unwilling to leave home, but a long-entertained wish to see
some of the continental countries besides France served to reconcile
him to the change. The voyage was a pleasant one: he enjoyed the
objects to be seen at Malta, so full of middle-age associations, and
thought of fictions he could found upon them. On the 17th December,
he reached Naples, where everything was done by the king and the best
society of the place, including many English, to render his residence
happy. His chief companion here was Sir William Gell, an invalid
English gentleman, who wrote upon the antiquities of Italy, and with
whom Scott at once became extremely intimate. He beheld most of the
classical antiquities with indifference--saying only at Pompeii: ‘The
city of the dead!’--but was keenly interested in any object or document
which took his mind into the middle ages. Here he actually wrote a new
tale (entitled _The Siege of Malta_), and commenced a second, neither
of which was deemed by his friends as fit to see the light. For some
time he entertained cheerful views about his health; he was also under
an impression that his debts were all discharged: it is needless to say
that in both particulars he was deceived. Thus about four months rolled
on. He then became anxious to return home, and, as he would not obey
rule either as to writing or his diet, it was thought best to gratify
him, in the hope that a more effectual control might there be exercised.
Attended by his younger son, who had been placed at Naples as an
attaché to the embassy there, and by his younger daughter as before,
Scott left Naples for Tweedside on the 16th of April. He paused a few
weeks at Rome, chiefly to gratify his daughter with the sights, of
which, however, he himself also partook, beholding, as before, the
medieval antiquities with the greater share of interest. The houses
occupied by the dethroned Stuarts, and their tombs in St Peter’s,
were objects of peculiar interest in his eyes. Here, as at Naples, he
was treated by persons of the highest rank, native and foreign, with
the greatest respect. Leaving Rome on the 11th of May, he proceeded
by Venice, through the Tyrol, to Frankfort, with a haste which must
have been unfavourable to him, but which nothing could control. It
was soon after necessary for him to have blood let by his servant
Nicolson, who had been instructed for that purpose. On the 13th of
June he reached London, totally exhausted. It was now evident that
this illustrious man was drawing near to the end of a greater journey.
He was kept three weeks in London, during which his friends saw in
him but occasional gleams of sense. He never knew distinctly where
he was: he knew, however, that he was not at Abbotsford, and there he
yearned to be. To gratify him, he was taken to Scotland by sea, and
from Edinburgh, as soon as possible, to his own house. As he approached
it, he began faintly to recognise familiar objects, and by and by it
was found difficult to keep him in the carriage, so greatly was he
excited. At length, alighting at the porch, and seeing his steward
and friend, he exclaimed: ‘Ha, Willie Laidlaw! O man, how often have
I thought of you!’ His dogs came about his knees, and he sobbed over
them until stupor fell again upon him. He remained in the sad state to
which he was now reduced for two months. Sometimes the mind cleared a
little, and on one occasion he caused himself to be placed at his desk
to write, where, however, the fingers failed to grasp the pen, and he
sunk back weeping in his chair. More generally he was in a state of
slumber. When sensible, he caused the Bible and church services to
be read to him. At length, on the 21st of September 1832, the scene
was gently closed. Sir Walter died in the sixty-second year of his
age--years undoubtedly being cut off from the sum of his existence by
that terrible exhaustion consequent on his later literary task-work.
The funeral of this illustrious Scotsman was appointed to take place
on Wednesday the 26th; and, preparatory to that melancholy ceremony,
about three hundred gentlemen were invited by Major Sir Walter Scott,
the eldest son of the deceased. Among the persons thus called upon
were many individuals whose acquaintance of Sir Walter Scott was
simply of a local character. On an occasion like this, when the most
honoured head in the country was to be laid in the grave, it might
have been expected that many individuals would have come of their own
accord, especially from the neighbouring capital, to form part in a
procession, which, however melancholy, was altogether of a historical
character. Considering what the deceased had done for literature--what,
more specially, he had done to popularise Scotland, its scenery,
traditions, and character--we might not unnaturally have looked for
some very marked demonstration of respect, gratitude, and affection.
But great events sometimes make less impression at the time than they
do many years after: and such was the apathy towards this extraordinary
solemnity, that only ten or twelve persons, including the writer of
this and his brother William, had come from Edinburgh. It is also a
very remarkable circumstance, that, as in ordinary funerals, not nearly
the whole of those who had been invited found it convenient to attend.
After a refection in the style usually observed on such occasions, the
funeral train set forward to Dryburgh, where the family of the deceased
possess a small piece of sepulchral ground, amidst the ruins of the
abbey. The spot originally belonged to the Halyburtons of Merton,
an ancient and respectable baronial family, of which Sir Walter’s
paternal grandmother was a member. It is composed simply of the area
comprehended by four pillars, in one of the aisles of the ruined
building. On a side-wall is the following inscription: ‘Sub hoc tumulo
jacet JOANNES HALIBURTONUS, Barro de Mertoun, vir religione et virtute
clarus, qui obiit 17 die Augusti, 1640;’ below which there is a coat
of arms. On the back wall, the latter history of the spot is expressed
on a small tablet, as follows: ‘Hunc locum sepulturæ D. Seneschallus,
Buchaniæ comes, GUALTERO, HOMÆ, et ROBERTO SCOTT, nepotibus
Haliburtoni, concessit, 1791.’--That is to say, the Earl of Buchan
(lately proprietor of the ruins and adjacent ground) granted this place
of sepulture, in 1791, to Walter, Thomas, and Robert Scott, descendants
of the Laird of Halyburton. The persons indicated were the father and
uncles of Sir Walter Scott; but though all are dead, no other member
of the family lies there, besides his uncle Robert and his deceased
lady. From the limited dimensions of the place, the body of the author
of _Waverley_ was placed in a direction north and south, instead of
the usual fashion; and thus, in death at least, he has resembled the
Cameronians, of whose character he was supposed to have given such an
unfavourable picture in one of his tales.
The funeral procession consisted of about sixty vehicles of different
kinds, and a few horsemen. It was melancholy at the very first to see
the deceased carried out of a house which bore so many marks of his
taste, and of which every point, and almost every article of furniture,
was so identified with himself. But it was doubly touching to see him
carried insensible and inurned through the beautiful scenery, which he
has in different ways rendered, from its most majestic to its minutest
features, a matter of interest unto all time. There lay the gray and
august ruin of Melrose Abbey, whose broken arches he has rebuilt in
fancy, and whose deserted aisles he has repeopled with all their former
tenants--as lovely in its decay as ever; while he who had given it all
its charm was passing by, unconscious of its existence, and never more
to behold it. At every successive turn of the way appeared some object
which he had either loved because it was the subject of former song,
or rendered delightful by his own--from the Eildon Hills, renowned in
the legendary history of Michael Scott--to
‘Drygrange, with the milk-white yowes,
’Twixt Tweed and Leader standing;’
to Cowdenknows, where once spear and helm
‘Glanced gaily through the broom;’
and so on to the heights above Gladswood, where Smailholm Castle
appeared in sight--the scene of his childhood being thus brought, after
all the transactions of a mighty and glorious life, into the same
prospect with his grave.
During the time of the funeral, all business was suspended at the
burgh of Selkirk and the villages of Darnick and Melrose; and in the
former of these hamlets several of the signs of the traders were
covered with black cloth, while a flag of crape was mounted on the
old tower of Darnick, which rears itself in the midst of the inferior
buildings. At every side avenue and opening, stood a group of villagers
at gaze--few of them bearing the external signs of mourning, but all
apparently impressed with a proper sense of the occasion. The village
matrons and children, clustered in windows or in lanes, displayed a
mingled feeling of sorrow for the loss, and curiosity and wonder for
the show. The husbandmen suspended their labour, and leaned pensively
over the enclosures. Old infirm people sat out of doors, where some of
them, perhaps, were little accustomed to sit, surveying the passing
cavalcade. And though the feelings of the gazers had, perhaps, as much
reference to the local judge--‘the _Shirra_’--as to the poet of the
world and of time, the whole had a striking effect. Those forming the
procession, so far as they could abstract themselves from the feeling
of the occasion, were also impressed with the extraordinary appearance
which it bore, as it dragged its enormous length through the long
reaches of the road--the hearse sometimes appearing on a far height,
while the rear vehicles were stealing their way through a profound
valley or chasm. The sky was appropriately hung, during the whole time
of the ceremony, with a thick mass of cloud, which canopied the vale
from one end to the other like a pall.
Towards nightfall the procession arrived within the umbrageous
precincts of Dryburgh; and the coffin, being taken from the hearse,
was borne along in slow and solemn wise through the shady walks,
the mourners following to the amount of about three hundred. Before
leaving Abbotsford, homage had been done to the religious customs of
the country by the pronunciation of a prayer by Dr Baird; the funeral
service of the Episcopal Church (to which the deceased belonged)
was now read in the usual manner by the Rev. John Williams, Rector
of the Edinburgh Academy, and Vicar of Lampeter, whose distinction
in literature and in scholarship eminently entitled him to this
honour. The scene was at this time worthy of the occasion. In a
small green space, surrounded by the broken but picturesque ruins of
a Gothic abbey, and overshadowed by wild foliage, just tinged with
the melancholy hues of autumn, with mouldering statuary, and broken
monuments meeting the eye wherever it attempted to pierce, stood the
uncovered group of mourners, amongst whom could be detected but one
feeling--a consciousness that the greatest man their country ever
produced was here receiving from them the last attentions that man
can pay to his brother man--which, however, in this case, reflected
honour, not from the living to the dead, but (and to such a degree!)
from the dead to the living. In this scene, where the efforts of man
seemed struck with desolation, and those of nature crowned with beauty
and triumph, the voice of prayer sounded with peculiar effect; for it
is rare that the words of Holy Writ are pronounced in such a scene;
and it must be confessed that they can seldom be pronounced over such
a ‘departed brother.’ The grave was worthy of a poet--was worthy of
Scott.--And so there he lies, amidst his own loved scenes, awaiting
throughout the duration of time the visits of yearly thousands, after
which the awakening of eternity, when alone can he be reduced to a
level with other men.
PERSONAL APPEARANCE.